


specchio

by wildewoman_22



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Ficlet, S3E03: My Old Kentucky Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 19:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildewoman_22/pseuds/wildewoman_22
Summary: After taking a quick walk around the club’s immaculate grounds, Trudy slipped her soft arm through Betty’s and led her to a patch of shade beneath a tree.





	specchio

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little something. Trying to get into writing again. Takes place during the garden party in 'My Old Kentucky Home.'

After taking a quick walk around the club’s immaculate grounds, Trudy slipped her soft arm through Betty’s and led her to a patch of shade beneath a tree. There, they sipped mint juleps and watched clusters of people milling around.

“I love people watching,” Trudy said. “Imagining them going about their day. When I was a girl, I used to imagine I was some nature explorer or something like that. Observing my subjects.” She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. Her face was animated and cheerful. Betty thought it was quite likely that the woman had gotten everything she’d ever wished for.

“It’s terribly interesting,” Betty replied. She paused for a moment. “We’re all more alike than we think we are.”

“Now there’s a thought.” Trudy raised her glass in a mock toast.

The corners of Betty’s mouth quirked up, a bit self-indulgently. “We talked about it in college. Patterns of behavior. The old ways, the culture, it’s really not all that much different from ours today.”

“So the cavemen knew how to mix a drink?” Trudy laughed and swallowed the last of her julep. “Where did you study?”

“Bryn Mawr. Anthropology,” said Betty, thinly restrained pride creeping into her voice. Trudy beamed.

“Vassar,” she said. “Modern literature. Fitzgerald and Faulkner and all that.”

“I liked Hemingway,” said Betty. “He was careful with his words.”

“I suppose that’s true. But I just love big, expressive words, don’t you? Ones that just _roll_ over your tongue.”

Trudy’s voice seemed to take on a musical lilt, a dreamy, faraway look washing over her. It was the sort of thing that would ring false on anyone else, yet it was clear to Betty that Trudy Campbell was a woman who always meant every single word that she said. Who relished in it.

Betty cleared her throat.

“I’ve spent some time in Rome. Italian is basically all like that – just lovely sounds.”

Trudy lit up. “ _Du bist mehrsprachig_?” she teased.

“My goodness,” Betty said amusedly. “I’ve never met anyone who spoke German. It always seemed like such a harsh language.”

“It’s strong, is what it is. I liked how it sounded. Plus, the boys in that class were much better-looking than the French department, so I was awfully determined to learn it.” Trudy said. “I’ve tried to get Peter to come see a German opera with me, but not even my persuasion skills are that good,” she sighed.

For a moment, Betty allowed herself to imagine being that woman again – being young and fresh and glamorous, married and living in the city. Going to operas instead of the park and play group. Knowing exactly where your husband was – knowing _who_ he was - because there wasn’t a train ride to separate you.

She wondered if Trudy always knew where her husband was. She wondered if Trudy had ever waited up for him to come home hours late without a phone call. If she'd seen him go straight to the kitchen sink to wash another woman off his hands, thinking Trudy would be in bed. 

Suddenly, Betty’s hands flew to her belly; a twinge of discomfort crossed her face.

“Is everything all right?” asked Trudy.

“It’s fine.” Betty smiled weakly. “She’s running out of room in there, and she is not very happy about it.” She rubbed a hand over the spot where the tiny, offended kicks were occurring. She noticed how Trudy’s eyes were unashamedly glued to the movement.

“Do you have children?” Betty asked gently.

A flicker of deep sadness passed over Trudy’s face for a moment.

“We’ve been trying for… a very long time,” she said in a quiet, naked, sad sort of voice. “My husband, he – he thinks we should wait. We're still young, and he's just working so hard lately. Too hard. You know how they are." She attempted a carefully blank smile, but there was a spark of something hard and bitter in Trudy's expression that she couldn't quite keep out. 

Betty almost welcomed it. 

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

All at once she felt a swift rush of guilt, soaking up the open wistfulness in the other woman’s eyes. The baby she’d once prayed to end up as blood on the floor of her bathtub was rolling around within her.

But Trudy Campbell was warm and charming. She was happy. She should be someone’s mother.

Betty tentatively reached for Trudy’s hand and pressed it to the swell of her belly. “Here - I think someone is trying to get your attention.”

Trudy stared back at her in amazement as she felt the baby kick her palm. “That’s incredible,” she breathed. Betty couldn't help admiring the roses blooming in Trudy's pale cheeks, the slight sheen of unshed tears in her round blue eyes.

A long forgotten quote came flooding back to mind.

“’Our faith in the present dies out long before our faith in the future,’” Betty said without thinking. The words came out soft and faint. 

Trudy smiled a very delicate smile.

“I like that,” she whispered. "It's true." 

“It was Ruth Benedict. We studied her in school," said Betty. The soothing hum of cicadas filled the still, balmy air. Underneath the tree, it was quiet. 

Trudy seemed to realize that her hand was still resting on the curve of Betty’s belly. She let it drop away, holding the blonde’s gaze intently.

“Thank you," she said. 

“Come on,” said Betty, gently squeezing Trudy’s wrist. “We should go back. I think they’re starting the dancing soon.”

Trudy nodded, and they walked on together.

**Author's Note:**

> Du bist mehrsprachig?: You are multilingual?
> 
> Apparently 'specchio' is Italian for 'looking-glass.'


End file.
